


Tied Down - MAIN STORY

by navyhurricane



Series: Dean's Angel of Death Adventures [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angel of Death Reader, Explicit Language, F/M, Spells & Enchantments, angel reader
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-17
Updated: 2017-01-17
Packaged: 2018-09-18 02:46:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,591
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9362819
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/navyhurricane/pseuds/navyhurricane
Summary: In a slightly separate story where Death goes missing right after restoring Sam's soul.You, as his second Angel of Death in command, want to locate him, his ring, control the frenzied reapers and comfort passing souls in his absence.When the reapers don take kindly to your authority and leave you for dead to a witch, you are bound with a single earring to a mortal who has cheated death, forced to stay with him until he eventually dies.But it's a new world, you only having been a spectator. Will you learn the modern ways, including feelings?MADE AS A SERIES





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my first series, so I hope people will enjoy it!
> 
> This is the MAIN STORYLINE. Any future fics will be based off of this one, and only some could be read alone. Most won't make sense unless you read this first.
> 
> Enjoy!!

   You grit your teeth as you pound on the old door, dust shaking down from the old porch top onto your (h/c) head. The metal hoop in your right ear makes the entire side burn, and you release a shaky breath due to pain.

   When you were a proper Angel, pain was a small thing. You healed immediately, and whatever had injured you was dead. You had unlimited Grace, curtesy of Death. You didn't eat, drink or sleep, but now that you are alone, the urge to curl up on the sunbeaten deck and sleep a million years is becoming more apparent.

    Rolling your shoulders in agony, you glance behind you at the wrecked wings protruding from your back. 

   They are, of course, invisible to humans and good thing for it. The normally glossy black arches fluffed with soft plumage are clawed and ripped up, the dark feathers missing in most places. Where the black turns a maroon-blood red, about the bottom third of your wings, the feathers are soaked in your own crimson. You feel the need to throw up somewhere whenever you catch a glimpse of them. Any angel who can see their state would turn away in disgust or shame.

   Nobody is answering. Damn it all. 

   Your maroon sneaker bounces off the door, making the frame shudder on its hinges. You don't want to use your precious remaining Grace to fly inside, and plus: as an Angel of Death, you need to be invited in. Death made that rule after that one you had stepped inside a cottage and had slipped, accidentally touching the old woman who had answered. Poor her, heart attack and all.

   The door whips open, revealing an old man in a ball cap, beard grey and eyes hard. "Who the hell're you?"

   You're panting a little, and ignore the question. The pain in your wings is getting to you. "Are you Dean Winchester?"

   

            ~Time Skip~

 

   You stand in the middle of the living room, arms crossed in a defensive stance as the old man rifles through yellowed books. He blows dust off of a page, and you watch his eyes as they skim down the paper. He makes a small sound, and drops the book on the nearby desk to pick up a small metal device on his person. 

   "Dean? I need you to get your ass over here, now....nearby? I don't care about the damn pie, just hurry up! Call Cas while you're at it."

   He slams the item shut, and sets it down not so gently on the desk. A wrinkled hand is run down his face, and you see his eyes studying you uncertainly. You stare back, not blinking or moving. Feeling a little adventurous, you squint a fraction of a millimetre and take a glance at the mans soul through his eyes.

   Intact, and shining a fiery white. The light in his eyes isn't so bright you have to look away, but something that's nice to stare at. You see wisps of black at the edges, evidence of a demon. You feel the edges of your mouth curve down the slightest. How could a demon touch his soul unless to collect it? Very strange.

   "Quit staring."

   You rip your eyes away from the mans soul and blink. He's got a glass half full of a brown tinted liquid, sipping occasionally. A flash of metal in his other hand makes you look away. If he thinks he has the upper hand currently, he may feel more comfortable. "Apologies."

   A grunt is your only reply. You feel the strange human need to sigh, roll your eyes, complain, scoff. Instead, you flex your shoulders and use the flash of pain to snap back to your senses. 

 

            ~Time Skip~

 

   The visitors don't knock on the door, just waltz right in. Two men, one much taller than the other but both just as tough looking. The giant one had red plaid peeking out from under a jacket, and the start of sideburns creeping down his face. He's got an old bag obviously full of something heavy due to the noise it makes when he drops it on the table. 

   The other one is shorter, but has at least five inches on you. His leather jacket is layered over a dark blue button up, and under that, an undershirt. His short hair is dandy in the sun, and his eyes are a nice green colour. You feel an internal force pulling you to him, and grit your teeth against it. 

   The forest coloured eyes land on you. "Bobby, who's this?"

   The old man stills. "I thought you would know. She knows you." 

   You try to relax your spine, wanting to lie down and rest, try to recover at least some of your Grace from your surroundings. You can already tell there's been deaths in this house, some human, some supernatural. You don't only need Death to supply your Grace; you can get it from death echoes and all deaths around you. 

   All places that a being has died in holds a certain wisp of their essence; that's what you can draw from. Some witches can do it, but it's mostly Death and you. There's a few in this living room. They have many names, but you like to call them ashes.

   "Well? Who- _what_ -are you?"

   You shift uncomfortably on your feet, tugging at the slightly too long sleeves on your maroon long sleeve and trying to meet the mans hard eyes. 

   "I am an angel."

   Another presence joins the room suddenly, and you slide your eyes to the right to see large translucent wings behind the new mans back. The black feathers are slightly raggedy, but nowhere near the state of yours. His blue eyes and tousled brown hair are that of his vessel, you can tell, and the trench coat reaches his knees, undone to reveal a blue suit.

   Azure eyes narrow first at you, then to the right of your head, and finally behind your back. You grit your teeth and try to hide your wings, knowing he can still see them.

   "Angel..." You mutter, and take a step backwards, fear grabbing your heart. Angels of God are much more ruthless than those of Death, and you've been warned about them. Death says that they killed one of his Angels. You feel heat on your back, and realize just how close you stepped into the shorter mans space.

   "Cas, do you know her?" The green eyed man asks-Cas?-but the angel shakes his head. He keeps his eyes on you the entire time.

   "Dean, Sam, over here, please." The heat moves away, leaving you alone in the middle of the room. That's Dean Winchester! And his brother? The one Death helped before disappearing? "This being is not a bad creature, similar to my kind." You feel the urge to growl in anger at him. Similar?! You were so close in shape and power that you could be cousins! You feel four sets of eyes on you.

   "This is the Last Angel of Death."

   Silence hits you full force. You clench and unclench your hands rhythmically, adjusting your shoulders the slightest and trying to find some sort of relief in the ashes in the room. It hardly helps.

   Dean looks at you with a gaze that makes you want to run and hide. "Angel...of Death? Cas, what the actual hell? This is some fake bullshit, right?"

   The angels blue eyes drift to over your shoulders, and you send one of your most murderous glares at him. "No. I can see her wings, and they are not God's creation. They are an abomination." You growl angrily, but feel your invisible appendages flutter in humiliation and shame.

   "So what the hell do we do with her?" Sam stares you down easily being almost a foot taller. "Isn't she just going to mojo out of here?"

   "I cannot." Your weak and pained voice is still steady. "I  am bound to him," You flick a few fingers towards Dean, and then to your ear. "Until I can kill the witch who set the spell. Limited 'mojo', and full responsibility on who enters Heaven and Hell." The room starts to sway, and you spread a wing out to balance yourself. You feel blood drip off it and onto the floor, turning visible when it leaves your wing. "Oh, no..."

   The faint smell of leather and gunpowder is present right before your pass out.


	2. Chapter 2

   You wake up in an uncomfortable bed, splayed out on your front. Your fingers are carded into the sheets, and one leg is dangling off the bed.

   Groaning gently, try to push yourself up on your hands, but find that a thin band of hard metal is locked around your wrist and the frame of the bed. You jerk your arm, and with a small echo of pain on the bone, find the handcuffs solid. Damn your restricted strength.

   You maneuver your body so you can sit upwards, fluttering your wings slightly-

   You freeze when you find you can hardly move your wings. Glancing over your shoulder, you find that the black feathers are wrapped thickly in bandages, carefully placed so not to pull on any feathers. That angel...

   You look around at the cell. The roof is flat but with a metal grate in the shape of a devils trap, obviously iron. Plastered and drawn and painted all over the walls are various sigils and spells that will contain almost every single supernatural being. You spy an angel banishing sigil directly across from you and shiver, pulling your knees up to your chest protectively. There's a desk, bookshelf, and a few weapon shelves holding guns and knives. You spy a few large bags of road salt and jugs of water, crucifixes inside. It's basically what somebody would need if demons or any creature attacked.

   The harsh sound of metal on metal makes you jump.

   The door is opening, and the angel along with Dean Winchester steps in. The earring makes your head throb, pulse with need to please your new master. You almost cringe. This is beyond humiliating.

   Dean stands just over 10 feet away from you, arms crossed. You can see a gun in his hand, obviously loaded. The angel is seemingly unarmed, but you know there's a weapon on him somewhere. If you had all your Grace, they wouldn't be a problem.

   "Dean Winchester..." Your words escape in a breath. You lock your (e/c) eyes on his, not blinking. 

   "Hey, sweetheart, how do you know me?" Dean's face stays impassive, almost identical to Cas'. The hunter keeps your gaze, although his carries much more malice.    

   "I believe I said this before: I am bound to you by a witch. I need to kill her." You look away, but a thought itches at the back of your mind. "How is your brother?"

   Dean's face twitches with confusion. "What does Sam have anything to do with this? You know what, just shut up. We're asking questions."

   You grit your teeth, and the handcuffs slam against the rail as you attempt and fail to stand up. Your head swims. You must still be woozy from blood loss. "Sam has everything to do with this! I wouldn't be in this position if not your you and your disastrous choices!" You slouch as the truth hits you again. "Death wouldn't be missing..."

   The hunter blinks, and steps towards you. Instantly, you can feel the invisible pull. "Death is missing? How are people dying then?" 

   You shoot a half crazed glare at Dean. "They're dying because I'm trying to keep the world in order. Do you realize how many people die in a day? Thank Death I have three reapers to my name." You slouch even more. "They must think I've abandoned them..."

   Running a free hand through your hair, you feel air bubble in your lungs, and make its way up your throat. Yawning, you wipe away tears. In a small fit of anger, you slam your cuffed wrist against the bed again. "Why is this happening?! What did she do to me..."

   Dean turns to the angel in the trench coat. "Cas, angels don't sleep, right?"

   "Correct."

   "Then why is she yawning?"

   You turn your gaze to the angel in the room, and he stares back, unaffected, at you. "Her Grace is depleted. Or, well on its way to being so. In a sense of words, she is human." Blue eyes narrow at your wings. "Partly, anyways."

   Dean frowns. "Partly?"

   "Her wings are visible to me, and without her Grace, in approximately two days, they should be visible to you as well." Well, great. You can't really say anything to the true facts, so you just sigh defeatedly. 

   "Well, I see no reason why she can't be let loose then. Apparently she's bound to me, or some shit." Dean walks towards you, small key in hand. A click, and the pressure on your wrist is lifted. You keep your head down, hair falling over and casting shadows on your face.

   Two sets of footsteps resonate near the door. "Well, uh, feel free to visit upstairs?" The cocky voice fades away, and you hear them walking up the creaky stairs. You don't move.

   Two days...

   A shudder runs down your spine.

         

            ~Time Skip~

 

   You end up coming upstairs two hours later, shoulders hunched painfully and eyes downcast. The Last Angel of Death. Nameless, petrifying, and powerful. Ruthless, judgemental, unsympathetic. That's you; a young girl basically forced into the life from the start. 

   Sam is sitting at the table, device glowing on his face. He moves his fingers over the part sitting on the table, and you hear small clicking sounds. Dean is standing in the kitchen, rooting around in the fridge. His jacket and overshirt are gone, showing strong tanned arms in his t-shirt. You really want to know what they feel like.

   In all your years roaming the Earth, you've never learned anything that defines human life. It's always been appear to help reap a soul, decide Heaven or Hell for them, disappear to a skyscraper somewhere, rest, repeat. You didn't find them interesting enough, and whenever you saw some inappropriate action in public or a fight break out, you would never care. It wasn't like you where going to ever be one of them. Until now. Now, you regret not taking that time to study the human race, take note of their clothes, slang, and actions. Why did they drink alcohol? Why do some females enjoy wearing next to nothing and dance on long cylindric poles? 

   You watch Dean, watch the muscles in his back flex slightly as he lifts a new case of alcohol into the fridge from the floor, watch him grab a brown bottle from the refrigerator door. The lid hisses as he opens it, and takes a deep drink. The door is shut with his foot, and he turns around to meet your eyes. You don't blink, just study his fingers clamped casually around the bottle. He frowns for a second, then smirks and offers the bottle towards you.

   "Want one?"

   You cock your head. "I've never consumed alcohol."

   "Really?!"

   "Dean, not everybody drinks like a fish." Sam's smart ass remark comes from behind you, and you realize you've drifters towards Dean and the outstretched bottle. Your fingers tremble a little as they reach for the bottle, and you stop inches away, glancing at Dean timidly. His smirk turns to a kinder looking simper, and he pushes the bottle closer to your hand.

   You clasp the bottles' neck with your fingertips, a little sound escaping your throats at the chill. You feel it slipping with the condensation on the outsides, and wrap your other hand around the body. The cold feels nice against your palm. 

   You peer down the open top, staring at the strong smelling liquid inside. Your thumb brushes over the lip of the bottle, catching a few drops. Right. Dean drank from it. You raise your hand to your mouth, and lick the drops off your thumb, grimacing slightly at the taste.

   "Urk..." Dean makes a strange sound right before a coughing fit, leaving away from you and facing into his arm. But that doesn't mean you don't catch his slightly red cheeks. You cock your head. Why is he flushed?

   You feel a small smile touch your lips, just enough to turn the corners up. Sam laughs at his brother, while Dean sticks a finger up in a rude gesture. You might enjoy living here.

   


	3. Chapter 3

   You wake up in the middle of the night. Glancing at the glaring red lines on the rectangular plastic box beside you, you can tell it's the day your wings are supposed to reveal themselves. Dean gave you a quick lesson on time, and you read the numbers out loud.

   "...Four...twenty...three...a.m?"

   You push the covers back, and swing your legs over the side of the couch shivering when your bare toes touch the cold floor. You wiggle them, still not entirely used to feeling. Your sleepwear consists of a pair of boxers Dean swore he's never used before, and a shirt that fits much too loose on you, but is very comfortable. 

   You sigh, and pull the shirt off. The black racer back sports bra Sam had found you from town exposed your shoulder blades, and you turn to look over your shoulder at your wings.

   You had unraveled the bandages before you slept, since they were almost healed anyways. Still slightly translucent, you run a palm down an arch, sorrow filling your body as you stare at the bare patches of skin and white bumpy scars. The black and red feathers are still an imposing sight, but the patches of (s/c) skin between them worries you. Will they grow back? You've no idea.

   Standing up fully, you move to the centre of the room and stretch your wings fully. You gasp. They're tiny! The usual fifteen foot wingspan has been reduced to less than five, and they are even with the top of your head when they are supposed to be more than two feet above.

   You cry out in shock and humiliation, stumbling forwards and grasping the wall, sliding down to your knees. Your wings feel tingly, warm and odd. 

   A set of footsteps echoes down the stairs, and you flinch away from the sound. Nobody needs to see you in such a state, but they still manage to.

   "Hey, angel girl? That you?"

   At Dean's voice, your heart flutters and your ear burns. Your wings are definitely getting warmer. 

   "Dean..." The heat increases, and your voice is strangled. You dig your fingers into the wall, slight pants turning to gasps for air as you break it in a sweat. "...Wings...!"

   You feel cold hands on your shoulders, and you groan at the blessed feeling. "Shit, what the hell do I do?" Dean turns you over, and stares at your face. He watches a bead of sweat trickle down your neck, and slide past your collarbone. Your pale form starts to tremble.

   "I don't know..." A wave of fire races over your wings, and you cry out while digging your nails into Dean's arms. If it hurts him, he doesn't show it. Instead, his focus is on something over your shoulder. 

   "Hey...I can see them..." His hand moves towards your head, and you duck evasively. His hand doesn't stop moving, and you almsot scream as he brushes a single feather with his fingers. Instantly, he retracts his fingers. "Shit! You alright?"

   You are most definitely not alright. The painful heat disappeared as soon as Dean touched your wings, replaced with this flash of something like warm honey in your gut, pouring over your insides and heart, making them all work double as fast. Your lungs can't seem to get enough air, and you pant heavily into the space between you and Dean, which isn't actually a lot.

   Dean has moved to kneel on the floor in front of you, drawing you closer into him so that you're less than a few inches apart. His hands are clasped around the Inside part of your elbows, and his green eyes search your face. Somehow, in your daze, you spot a golden symbol on his right iris. Odd. You'll have to check it out later.

   "Holy shit, they look..." Dean stares at your wings, and you whine, bringing them in close to your back, scared. No human has ever looked at your wings without being afraid, so when you reaped souls, you would appear as a reaper does; in a human form. Not a vessel, like other angels, but as your own body.

   You're a young woman, 21, and very beautiful. As a child, your glittering (e/c) were always filled with hope for the future, and you ran with your skirts bunched around your legs, (h/c) locks streaming behind you. Your (s/c) complexion would always get a red hue in the summer and turn paler in the winter.

   You grew up, turned from childish to mature and was looking for a man to marry. Your birthday was the next week, anyways, and your mother really only cared about what portion of the inheritance she would receive from a marriage. 

   She paired you with a man; Alton, his name was. With his charming brown eyes and swept back charcoal hair, he caught your eyes immediately and you caught his. You adored his younger siblings, a set of identical twin girls that shared his eyes and hair. Alice and Anna, the girls and you were inseparable. You didn't have any siblings of your own, so you latched onto the girls.

   Alton became jealous; the day of your birthday, he took you and the girls to a secluded forest for a picnic. You had helped the seven year old girls dress in matching checkered dresses and bonnets, while yours was a ruby red and black colour. 

   After setting up the lunch, Alton had pulled a knife and held it to your throat, threatening your life over his sisters. He promised he wouldn't kill you if you killed his sisters, but if you didn't kill them, he would murder all of you. The crazed look in his eyes make your bones shake with fear, and you took the knife from him.

   Seconds later, your dress was soaked with blood and you loosely held the knife with your red stained hand. Alton had laughed, and drawn you into a hug.

   You felt tears run down your face as you slashed sideways across his throat, and then stabbed down over and over into his face. You screamed your pain as you brought that knife down again...and again...and again...and again...

   Hours later and you had killed yourself with the same knife, wrists slit deeply. The smell of the fire you had burned their bodies in was the last thing you remembered as a human.

   Death had come to you, offering a chance to redeem youself but only if you stayed under his command for the rest of eternity. You had agreed, for the only place left for you was Hell, and you did not want to go there for obvious reasons. 

   To forever remind you of your actions, Death gave you crimson and black wings, the same colours as your dress. Until now, he's been your only master. Until Dean.

   You watch Dean carefully, ready to flee at any sign of aggression or disgust. The daze in your head has cleared completely, leaving you able to move and think properly. 

   His lips are slightly parted in awe, and his eyes are filled with wonder. That's never happened before. He isn't pale with total shock or screaming in fear. Has Dean ever actually screamed in fear?

   "Amazing..." You blink, and feel your face turn hot. You're blushing, hard. Amazing? Your wings are tattered and dusty and old, nothing to be amazed about. Dean must not be seeing them clearly, so you meet his gaze. Nope, he's definitely seeing them.

   "What're you talking about...they're disgusting..." You mutter feebly, and feel exhaustion take over your system. You slump into Dean's arms, and close your eyes, submitting to the fatigue.


	4. Chapter 4

   You wake up an hour later, face pressed against a warm surface that smells like leather. Your hands are tucked into your sides, and your legs are tangled with solid somethings. Your wings lay heavy across your back, and you sigh happily as something runs over them, snuggling deeper into the source of warmth. 

   "Morning, sunshine." You stiffen, the voice bringing back all memories of what happened before you blacked out. Waking up, wings, Dean, wings, unconscious. Damn. And where are you now...?

   The answer, you find, is pressed against Dean's chest, laying on the couch, his back propped up by the armrest. His legs are tangled with yours, arms around your waist and over your wings, and his breath hitting the top of your head. It's nice, so you don't move away. Apparently Dean wasn't lying when he said your wings were amazing. His soft touch on them is enough for you to tell. "Hey, what's your name?"

   "...(Y/n)..." This entire scene is nice, and you quite like having another human pressed against you. You were never able to have that, since you killed all that you touched. Plants, animals, and people were in danger of you, the Angel of Death. It's nice to not have a major responsibility. 

   Most reapers enjoy their job, and will continue it without order. The main problem was the judgment. Which souls go to Heaven? Which to Hell? You even sent supernatural beings to Purgatory...

   Purgatory makes you think of witches, and your current situation. You gasp, and push yourself up on Dean's chest. He grunts, but you ignore it as you stare deep into his green eyes. 

   There, on the right side of his right iris, was a symbol. Nothing like you've ever seen before, the intricate gold loops form a ring with a single feather inside, tiny and extremely detailed. That must be the proof of the bind. You sigh defeatedly, and drop your head back on his chest. It's his eye. You would have to kill the witch, then destroy the items the spell created, like your earring and the symbol. Your stuck with Dean forever. 

   "Dean..."

   "Mhm?"

   "I can't break the spell."

   "Oh."

   "May I stay here, and search for Death?"

   "Definitely."

   You softly hum your thanks, and  yawn. Heavy steps make you groggily look up, meeting the very wide eyes of Sam. His hair is a mess, and wears the same clothes as last night, albeit rumpled more. "Good morning, Sam."

   His gaze lands on your wings, and you see him swallow. You couldn't care less, being wrapped up in Dean's embrace. Speaking of Dean, he's smiling cheekily at his brother while patting a wing. It sends shallow lightning bolts down your spine.

   "Morning, Sammy. Meet (Y/n)." The giant man waves, turns around and face palms, muttering something about how fucked up his life is and that his brother is going to end up dating an angel. You just sigh deeply, and burrow into Dean's chest once again. His hand runs over your wings, and the entire room seems to buzz with that warm honey like pleasure.

   It's not so bad being tied down.


End file.
